


Anybody...

by TeeEye82



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Leave him be already., Precious Too Pure For Any Of This, Secret Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeeEye82/pseuds/TeeEye82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's our most unaware moments that give away our entire charade, as morals are the way we behave while we think no one is looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anybody...

**Author's Note:**

> Upon the discovery of this dialogue in-game I was compelled to detail a response. So here it is.

Below the haze of the damp grey sky that kept the Dream gently illuminated, resting calmly against the old, warped stones of the cobble path, a leather-clad figure draped in a thick cloak of ragged cloth stirred. The welcoming groaning of the messengers pulled him fully from his sleep, and he raised his head to groggily squint up towards the workshop that loomed silently over the steps a few paces ahead. The Plain Doll shifted as she realised his return, rising from the little outcropping beside the path and coming to stand patiently at attention. The Hunter was on his feet, now, brushing off the dirt and grass that clung to his shoulders and chest as he leisurely made his way up to her.

“Welcome home, good Hunter,” she greeted him with a slight dip of her bonnet, and the man tipped his own hat in return as he passed her, avoiding her gaze.

The way the Doll’s wide and glassy eyes followed his movements had always unnerved him, and now was no exception. She seemed to be anticipating something, borderline gleeful of what was to come if not for the pure, expressionless stare she sported. The Hunter had the sinking suspicion that whatever it was, it wouldn’t bode well for him. But he shook away the nervous tingle as he climbed the steps. The headstones on his right served as silent sentinel to his progress, and his eyes strayed to the split and oozing one at the end, as they always did, before he crossed the doorway into the quaint building.

On all sides there was the ever present feeling of belonging here. Between the haphazardly piled books, the wall of assorted equipment and materials for passing Hunters to stock up on, the little desk with the pitcher and goblets which he could only assume were Gehrman’s, the dusty rugs that stretched from one end to the other, the crackling of the fire beside the workbench, above which hung a selection of old tools and scrap metals, and the large doors that stood open for the chilled scent of the swaying white flowers to permeate the warm air of the building. The Hunter let the familiar environment ease his lingering tension of his latest venture and from being near the Doll, and he thunked his worn Axe down on the workbench while shrugging off his cloak and letting it hang off the edge of the table. He worked in silence, cleaning and repairing what he could of the old weapon, turning blood shards over in his gloves as he pondered the next improvement he could make on it.

Something outside disturbed the atmosphere he’d settled into, and he twisted where he stood to try to pick up on the odd sound, should it happen again. It had been faint, and the Hunter was about ready to pass it off as a new moan the messengers picked up when it came again. This time with a choked sob.

Two parts curious and three parts worried, the Hunter dropped the blood shard he’d been fiddling with and left the workshop through the door by the altar, scanning the nearby shrubs and tombs before making his way down the left side of the structure, following the anxious sounds of grumbling.

“Oh, Laurence… Master Willem… Somebody. Help me…”

A rush of terror filled the Hunter as he recognised the voice as Gehrman’s, and he dashed the rest of the way, pulling out his secondary Threaded Cane. Had something foul found its way into the Dream? Why hadn’t the Doll warned him? Or the messengers? Visions of a mangled mentor and blood speckled lilies flashed behind his eyes, but the vision was washed clean once he broke around the corner to find the old Hunter hunched in his wheelchair, as per usual.

“Unshackle me. Please... anybody…” A shuddering gasp punctuated the plea, and the drawled words indicated sleep talking. The Hunter put his weapon away and made his way to the elder man, coming to stand awkwardly behind his chair, gaze cast out to the ship masts that littered the fog. His chest tightened in something akin to sympathetic sorrow as Gehrman continued his disturbed mutterings.

“I’ve had enough of this dream… The night blocks all sight… Oh, somebody, please…” His voice was so strained. It felt lost and detached, weighted down by a history the Hunter could only guess at as he swayed silently by the now weeping man. He felt light headed and frail, and his knees threatened to buckle as he shifted to come to kneel in front of Gehrman. Dry, weathered skin was pulled tight over an agonised expression. Tormented. Tears darkened paths down the crevices of wrinkles and sharp bone structure, and his lips moved against voiceless words that were no doubt further imploration of help. The Hunter reached up and removed his own hat, leaning forward to touch his forehead against the brim of Gehrman’s and close his eyes.

He had no idea what brought the old Hunter here. Had never given it much thought, really. But here and now his mind was scattered, panicked and fidgety, scrambling for answers in anything he might have come across already. What was the Dream exactly? Where did it come from? What was it supposed to serve? Djura’s laments slid over his mind, to consider the Dream. Eileen’s rough drawl mentioned her history with the Dream. Gehrman’s own words of historical repetition of the way of the Hunter joined the other two voices. He breathed out slowly, opening his eyes to the other’s now less pained face of sleep, and he dropped a gloved hand to gently curl around the twiggy fingers draped in the old Hunter’s lap.

“Just a little longer, old man. I promise.”

The Hunter lifted one of those hands stiffened with age and lighted his lips against the knuckles softly. He then rose from the slumbering form and replaced his top hat on his head, stepping around the wheelchair to return to the workshop and retrieve his forgotten gear. He didn’t know yet what his promise would entail, but he did know that no matter what obstacle he faced, no matter what sacrifice need be made, he would free Gehrman from this Dream. He would free him from this prison.

Down beside the base of the steps, the Plain Doll raised her glassy eyes to the workshop, and a faint smile played at her pale porcelain mouth, borderline gleeful of what was to come.


End file.
